Rare
by DeejayMil
Summary: Humans, as a whole, are always interesting. Sometimes, the wrong kind of interesting. Death is pretty fond of them all. But then, there are the heroes...


**Rare**

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 **.**

 _"_ _And what would humans be without love?"  
RARE, said Death._

 **Terry Pratchett** , _**Sourcery**_

 **.**

Death, on the whole, was quite fond of human beings. Which was fortunate, because his job brought him into contact with quite a few of them, throughout all manner of universes. In fact, as time continued its steady onward trot, he found that there were rather _more_ than a few of them to deal with, so he did what any successful business owner would do.

He contracted a few universes out.

And it all went rather splendidly, if he did say so himself. It gave him _far_ more time for the interesting cases, although he'd never quite met a human yet who'd completely failed to interest him. With all of eternity and then some stretching ahead—or at the very least, until he was required to reap himself, which was sure was the logical conclusion of all this—there would probably be a day that he met a human so utterly boring even his interest would be negated.

It hadn't happened yet; however, he _had_ met some humans who were rather… well, interesting, yes, but not in a good way. Not like kittens or astrophysics were interesting. More in the interesting way of slimy bugs or many-legged spiders or even a dark hole in a wall leading to gods knows where. The kind of interesting that came with a big neon sign declaring DANGEROUS, DO NOT TOUCH that you felt oddly compelled to touch and yet also strangely betrayed when it touched back.

And his reapers in one particular universe were fed up with this kind of interesting, so Death had agreed to take on these jobs.

"It's not that we _can't_ do it, yanno," said Harley, a reaper Death had assigned himself. Steady man, cautious, with a penchant for chewing tobacco and referring to women as 'broads'. "We just… well, they do tend to clog up the works a bit. I have to assign a single reaper just to follow these devils. The lads won't stop bellyaching about being overworked." He spat, loudly, and Death _hrmmed_ in reply.

I'LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO, he replied after a moment, and went off to do just this.

Serial killers, they called them. Murderers, executioners, cut-throats, butchers. Many words, many worlds. Death knew the kind. He wasn't _fond_ of the kind, insomuch as he could be un-fond of any human. And reapers were a lot closer to human than they were to Death, having been human once themselves—not so long ago, or so it seemed to Death, although many of them would disagree. Their dislike was much more realized.

He followed a thin thread of that slimy interestingness and found one such man. Not a man about to die, although death crowded around him as though he was a particularly dark kind of light pulling deadly little moths around himself. Death studied him. _Hmm_ ed a little. Checked his book.

 _Adrian Elliot Bale_ the book said. _Otherwise known as Addy, that-odd-man-next-door, the Boston Shrapnel Bomber, a Very Bad Man Indeed._ There was a note tabbed in. Death unfolded it with one careful distal phalanx and found _Ex-post: add 'Cop Killer' to aliases after this date._

The date was today. Death looked up, scanning the warehouse he was standing by. Humans scurried around him, dressed in dark uniforms with heavy vests and various antonyms splashed on the backs. Humans, as a whole, were very, very fond of alphabets, considering them one of their greatest achievements. Death mostly agreed with that, although the existence of tea was a close second. A man with FBI written on his vest strode past, his face grim.

AH, said Death, because that man was about to die. HOW UNFORTUNATE.

It was, he thought after, a terrible time. That man wasn't the only man to die. There were many, many more, and not all at once, and Death could understand his Reapers' consternation. All because of one man who was just the wrong kind of interesting.

He stood in the hospital by the side of a man on the cusp of dying, and the man stood beside him watching it happen.

"This is a bit shit," the man said glumly, peering down at what used to be a perfectly serviceable face. It was now, to put it kindly, a little bit on the wonky side. "Twenty years working the FBI and this is how I go. What bull."

ALL LIVES END, Death said, the same old rigmarole. IT WAS WORTH IT WHILE IT LASTED THOUGH, WAS IT NOT?

The man seemed to consider this, even as his body gave one last rattling breath and folded inwards on itself. "Guess so," he said, staring at the body as the machines howled and nurses rushed around. Dying was _loud_ in this world. "Well, there I go." He glanced out the window looking in from the corridor, to two men standing there. Their expressions were expressions Death had seen many, many times before. Shocked, appalled, a little disconcerted. The expressions of humans faced with something far bigger, and yet far simpler, than they knew how to comprehend. "Feel sorry for him though, that one." He jabbed at the shorter man. "His order sent us in there, you know. Not his fault. Bale's a bastard… wish I could tell him that, though. This kind of thing ruins good cops. Gets in their heads and worries them to bits."

Death looked to the man and the younger one next to him. Blood on their clothes, not theirs, and soot on their hands. He knew the look. _Heroes._

Heroes were generally the well-meaning sort who rushed quickly to meet him. Oh yes. He'd known a lot of heroes in his time: young ones, brave ones, rash ones. Very rarely old ones.

I'LL TELL HIM FOR YOU NEXT TIME I SEE HIM, he said, because he was all about easing the way in any way he could. No reason dying needed to be sad for everyone involved. NOW, COME ON. WE'RE LATE. OR RATHER, YOU ARE.

The man didn't really seem to appreciate his pun, but few ever did.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

He met the man again, eventually, but he met his team first. And his team were _Interesting_. You could almost hear the capital I when describing them. A team of near-misses, as Death came to refer to them, but he didn't really mind.

They were very much like a holiday.

Another hospital, a woman this time.

HELLO, said Death, and the woman swung around and stared at him warily. MY CONSOLATIONS. He gestured to the body laying very still and pale. The man from Boston paced alongside, his face twisted into a guilty mask of misery.

"Fuck off," said the woman, and folded her arms. Death took the small beat of shocked silence that followed this to check his book. _Elle Marie Greenaway. Also known as: Ellie-Bellie, Peanut, SSA Greenaway_. "I'm not dying today, so walk your skeletal arse out of that door, thanks."

I'M NOT ENTIRELY SURE YOU UNDERSTAND THE PROCESS, Death said, despite being quite pleased with the sass of a woman who faced an eight-foot tall skeleton and cussed at it as a first response. He tapped his scythe on the floor, wiggled his metatarsals in delight, and continued: YOU SEE, OFTEN YOU ARE NOT GIVEN A CHOICE—

"Put me back," she demanded, tapping her foot right back at him. " _Now_. I'm not done. That bastard painted in my _blood_. Do you know what that feels like?"

Death looked down at his ribcage, covered by black robe. NOT REALLY, he said honestly. WHAT 'BASTARD'?

The man's phone rung. He answered it with a barked 'Gideon', and then bolted out the door with one despairing glance back at Elle in the bed.

"Why don't you go with him?" Elle said snappily, thrusting her chin out in a determined shape. "Reap the man who put me here instead. You watch. While you're gone, I'll live. I don't die for cowardly pieces of sh—"

OKAY, said Death, cutting her off. He was always up for a deal. I WILL GO WITH HIM. WHEN AGENT GIDEON'S BUSINESS IS DONE, I WILL RETURN. YOU HAVE UNTIL THEN.

And he left.

He witnessed, in short succession, a series of humans being both very brave and very stupid; a redundant statement as they often meant quite the same thing. Then there was a fire, and a man popped out next to him.

"Is this the cure?" he asked desperately, staring back to where his body burned. "Did the boy do it?"

Death felt rather sorry for him. Life could be far crueller than he ever could. YES, he replied gently, and took the man's hand. NOW, COME WITH ME. And he led him away.

When he returned to Elle, the body was there but the woman was not. Agent Gideon walked in, smelling of ash and flames and something sharper.

Elle opened her eyes.

GOOD GIRL, Death told her. AND GOOD DAY, AGENT GIDEON.

Agent Gideon didn't reply, but Death didn't mind. He wasn't in a hurry.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

Death was disturbed.

Three days. Time was of little concern to him, more of an abstract concept, so it wasn't really a problem that he'd been in this shack for far longer than he'd expected to be. The man tied to the chair had been marked to die two days prior.

He hadn't. It happened sometimes. Wires were crossed, clerical errors. Even the universe made them. Fact of life; where there was paperwork, there were beings making small but impactful mistakes on that paperwork.

This error meant that Spencer Reid was alive still when he shouldn't have been.

But not for much longer.

Death examined the glazed eyes, the blue nails, and hmmed thoughtfully. Stepped back and waited. It came with a shout and a thump and Death found himself facing quite the oddest man he'd met in some time.

Spencer stared at him, and then he looked down at his body shuddering to a stop on the floor. Behind his body, a camera blinked. He swallowed.

I'M SORRY, Death said, because after three days watching the man slowly move towards him… well, life was cruel and Death truly wasn't. IT'S OVER NOW. COME ON. He was using the voice he used for small children—not the silly one that adults used because they incorrectly believed that children were somehow beneath them, but the one he used when he wasn't entirely sure what was happening was at all fair by anyone's definition.

"But my team," Spencer said numbly, staring at the camera blinking away. "They'll blame themselves." Not once did his eyes flicker back to his body. Shock hazed him, clouded the sharp eyes that he'd retained until the very end. Clouded the brain that Death had watched tick tick tick away, until he'd been overcome with a boundless curiosity to _know_ how it all worked.

Hmm, Death thought again. Spencer's form turned hazy, wavered. Almost dropped away. Death stepped forward, catching a thin wrist with one bony hand, anchoring him.

The date on his book was wrong.

A man burst back in, beginning CPR on the body already settling into innateness. Death could see already: it wouldn't work. It wasn't _supposed_ to work.

But the date was wrong.

WHAT WILL YOU DO IF YOU LIVE? he asked. Spencer looked at him, oddly, as though he wasn't really seeing him at all. WHY ARE YOU MORE WORTHY OF LIFE THAN OTHERS WHO HAVE ASKED?

"I'm not," said Spencer. His eyes flickered for a moment, focusing finally on Death. They widened. Shock faded them. His voice wasn't really a voice anymore, but a belief. _But_ _I have to try_.

And Death smiled, or as close to the expression as a fleshless skull could approximate without muscles or lips.

OKAY, he said gently, and pushed him. There was a sound like rustling pages. The body breathed once more, noisily. Death looked at his book, as the date changed again. Sighed. _Heroes_. They only ever bought themselves a little bit more time with every near miss. We'll meet again, Spencer Reid.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

He saw Agent Gideon burn out and wasn't surprised. He _was_ surprised by how much the night stayed with him. It was a tentative date. A whisper of a time, a place, and he wouldn't even normally go until the ink on the book solidified to a surer bold. But he saw the name. Stalled for a moment.

And he went.

THIS IS NOT THE END FOR YOU, he found himself saying, as Jason lingered over the stubby-black barrel of his service Glock. A MAN IS NOT THE SUM OF HIS PAST.

Jason looked old. Not old in his years as a man would count them, but old in his soul as Death could see him. Weary hands tracing age-old patterns on his weapon. Patterns that had predated the invention of gun themselves; written formerly in ropes and poisons and broken hearts.

YOUR TEAM WILL BLAME THEMSELVES, Death added, strangely because before now he'd never quite considered the feelings of humans that he wasn't physically standing beside the bodies of. He remembered, just then, one of those humans. THIS WAS NOT YOUR FAULT.

The gun wavered. In that empty, silent cabin, Jason Gideon turned and looked at the corner where Death lingered, as though his life spent chasing him had culminated in this moment. And the moment lingered.

"I have nothing," Jason said the corner, to himself. Almost involuntarily.

YOU HAVE LIFE, Death corrected him, and wondered why this was any different. Spencer echoed in his mind, and Elle. YOU HAVE THE LIVES OF THOSE YOU HAVE SAVED. AND THOSE YOU DID NOT, WHO YOU CARRY WITH YOU. AND YOU HAVE YOUR TEAM.

The gun wavered. Death traced his fingers down his scythe.

Jason put the gun down and reached for a pen.

The ink faded.

Death said nothing, just nodded to the man's back and stepped silently away.

And the night stayed with him.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

Maybe that was why he did it. Maybe that was why he broke his rule, although to be fair, he'd broken it many times before that. If he was being completely honest with himself, which he tried to be. Was. Mostly.

Death was impartial, except, apparently, where the motley team of _heroes_ Jason Gideon had assembled were involved.

The team that he met over and over and over again. Not only when they themselves were in danger, but sometimes when they failed. Sometimes, they were moving past the body that Death was collecting. Sometimes, they put that body there.

Sometimes, there was the same grief in their eyes as they looked at the bodies that were the wrong kind of interesting as there was when they looked at the bodies of the ones who'd deserved so much more.

And then there was today, when _Aaron Hotchner_ popped up in his book; instead of reaping the man, Death put out his hand and stopped him from stepping towards an explosive end. And he didn't really know why, except he suspected it had started years ago in a cabin, watching Jason teeter between a pen and a gun.

DON'T DISAPPOINT ME, Aaron, he said firmly.

He didn't.

None of them did.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

"You _are_ real."

Death suspected that only Spencer Reid could look quite so pleased at having something confirmed, when confirming that thing meant he was standing in a crowded ambulance as his life stalled beside him. Just for the sake of this conversation, Death made the scene around them fade and slow.

REAL IS ONE WAY TO PUT IT, he said finally, as Spencer turned and looked at the hazy grey that hid him from himself. AND YOU ARE... ACCIDENT PRONE.

"Anthrax isn't really an accident," Spencer said absently, and coughed as though he'd only just thought to remember. "How are you here? There's no room for you. The internal proportions of the emergency vehicle don't really allow for a eight foot three tall anthropomorphic per—"

YOU'VE LOOKED ME UP.

Spencer looked back up at him now. "I was curious," he admitted, studying Death now. "I had some idea that I'd seen _something_ , but… I just didn't know what. I'm surprised you're so very…" He seemed to fumble for the word.

CLICHE. YES. I HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT BEFORE, MANY TIMES.

Spencer nodded wildly, his eyes alight with glee and something deeper, something burning. Something that hungered for _more_ than this. "I—" he began, and stopped. Swallowed. "I… have a lot of questions…" he said finally, his voice thin. "But I think I just realized what you being here means. Some… some genius."

YOU'RE NOT THE FIRST TO LOSE TRACK OF THE FINER DETAILS AT THE SIGHT OF ME. YOU WON'T BE THE LAST.

And Death looked down at his book. The date was… tentative.

ONE QUESTION, he said finally. YOU MAY HAVE ONE QUESTION. Spencer brightened, brain visibly ticking. The world began to hum into motion around them.

"Okay, okay," he chattered, hands twitching at his side as he rushed through everything he wanted to say in his mind, before his face stilled and his hands did too and he murmured quietly, "Do you help them?"

And Death was speechless. For a moment. WHO?

"The ones we… the ones we don't save." In that heartbeat, Death saw Gideon on his face, in the patterns his fingers rapped against his leg. "The people we fail."

Death closed his notebook with a snap, sliding it into his pocket. THERE'S NEVER BEEN ONE YOU'VE FAILED, he said firmly, reaching out to press a skeletal hand against the man's chest, watching his eyes widen at the touch. BUT, YES. I AM THERE TO GUIDE THEM. AS I SHALL BE FOR YOU. He paused, and Spencer closed his eyes. Prepared. BUT NOT TODAY.

He pushed, gently, and felt the notebook sigh.

JUST THIS ONCE, he assured it.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

HELLO, AGAIN. Death felt a bit useless as Spencer grinned sheepishly at him. THIS IS FOR YOU.

"Oh." Spencer looked at the cup Death held out to him. "Coffee? How…"

DON'T ASK.

They both looked at his body, sprawled bleeding on the ground. Death quickly shifted the scene away, as Spencer's teammate turned to him and screamed his name, lunging for the pulse of blood from his throat. Spencer touched his neck, winced. Took the coffee and looked away.

SO, said Death, shifting his feet awkwardly. ONE QUESTION, WAS THE DEAL. I BELIEVE.

There was never any doubt of the outcome of this confrontation, not to his mind. Every time he saved a life, saved one of these lives, the list in his book grew shorter. Fate was flexible. And Death was many things, but rarely naïve, so as he left he said with a sigh, SEE YOU NEXT TIME, DR. REID.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

And there was a last time too.

AGENT GIDEON, said Death, greeting the man as he walked from his cabin for the last time without even a backwards glance at himself or his murderer. WELCOME.

Jason eyed him warily and then, with the same steady calm he'd showed throughout his life, accepted it. "So, that's it then," he said, with a shrug. "Very well. What's next?"

Death tapped at his notebook. He'd had the idea after checking his notes for the last ten years. He'd done a _lot_ of scurrying around after a certain team. They were proving…

Heroic.

I'D LIKE TO OFFER YOU A JOB, he said, and held the book out to the man who'd started this whole fascinating mess. I THINK YOU'LL FIND IT INTERESTING.

Jason studied the book, and then took it with a tiny half-smile. "That's it?" he asked, flipping through the blank pages. "A whole life lived, and then I die and have to start it all over again? You just rock up here with your stick and your book and _hire_ me? That's all you have to say?"

Death looked at his scythe, slightly insulted. A _stick_. Not hardly.

I DO HAVE ONE MORE THING TO SAY, he said finally, after a long moment of careful contemplation.

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

BALE'S A BASTARD.


End file.
